He remembered her in Calatia, long after he'd sought to surpress the sound and magic of her castle town and its world of green pastures and rolling hills and pleasantries. Everyone was kind there, everyone honest - a world more false myth than reality, like the imperfect piece of a puzzle unbound, its jigsaw complexity more trouble than comfort. He wanted to forget her in ale, see the whisper of her memory tremble on the skin of a whore, dissipate and uncanny. He loved her best in his memory heavily bound under the wrappings of necessity and shame, a half-corpse boy with a world for his coffin, and he wanted her stagnant there, simple and pretty and nothing worth having.

He wants to forget the trickle of her voice the curve of her ear the movement of hands on his face the press of her mouth against his skin thegirlunderthecloththatwasneverhis -